H A P P Y   N E W   Y E A R!!

The New Year traditionally brings with it a flurry of prophesies, predictions and forecasts and I'm not about to mess with tradition. Well, maybe a little. What follows is a trip back to the future (and please excuse the cliche—it happens to be true this time). Read on . . .

In February of 1966 Time magazine printed an essay: “The Futurists: Looking Toward A.D. 2000”. They surveyed physical scientists, economists, sociologists, engineers and others to get a view of the future. Overall, the predictions were optimistic, foreseeing an era of “limitless change”  with man (they always use “man”) “not only in total control of his environment but of his own brain and his own  evolution.” Pretty heady stuff.

A surprising number of their predictions were spot on. By 2000 we would have “instant communications”. Marshall McLuhan predicted many people would work from home “…doing their work via countrywide telecommunications.” He just described the Internet and the world-wide web.

Others were wildly off the mark. McLuhan, again, and others predicted that “…both the wheel and the highway will be obsolete, giving way to hovercraft that ride on air…The new thing will be transport by ballistic rocket, capable of reaching any place on earth in 40 minutes.” Maybe they figured all we needed to do was replace the nuclear warheads of our ICBMs with passengers?

Here’s sampling of other predictions. First, the misses (they’re so much more

Interesting):

            • A permanent lunar base will have been established well before 2000

            • Men will have flown past Venus and landed on Mars

            • Huge fields of kelp will be tended by undersea “farmers”—frogmen who

               will live in submerged bunkhouses (I can imagine it: Every morning they

               saddle up their sea horses and head out, rounding up stray kelp,

               singing, “Oh, give me a home, where the great blue whales roam…")

            • By changing the information in DNA,  man will  become the only animal  

that can direct his own evolution. (Actually, come to think of it, this one

may not be so far off .  . . )      

            • The kitchen of the future will be entirely automated.  The housewife

               (at least they don’t call her “the little woman”) will prepare the menu, “put

               the necessary food into the proper storage spaces, and feed her pro-

               gram to a small computer.” Mechanical arms will then take out the food,

               cooking and serving it.

            • Finally, and the prize for the worst prediction: By 2000, machines will be

               producing so much that everyone in the US will be independently

               wealthy. It was estimated that only 10% of the population will be

               working. (With the economy and unemployment the way they are, 
               that last figure may not be off, either.)

And now for the  hits (all three of them):

            • Artificial organs will be commonly available and there will be widespread

               transplanting of organs.

            • Control of personality will be widely accepted through the use of drugs.

               (Hello Prozac and all your cousins).

            • Robots will vacuum rugs, cut the grass.

You decide if this next one is a hit or a miss: We will be a pleasure-oriented

society full of “wholesome degeneracy”.  We are indeed pleasure-oriented and

there’s certainly enough degeneracy to go around. I just don’t know that I’d call it “wholesome”.


After I posted this AM, got this great 1954 photo from someone who mysteriously calls himself Multi-Niker. Fits right in with the theme, thanx!

And, last for this week, a drawing (sketch? whatsit?) I did some years ago while sitting thru a boring board meeting of the Seattle Education Association. The year is embedded—see if yo can find it. (Hint: It's not hard.)

             

I believe it's The Washington Post that once a year runs a contest asking readers to take a word, make some small change to it and then redefine it. There's also a recently published book with hundreds of these "new" words (can't really call them neologisms, I suppose, maybe "newlogisms"?), but I don't remember the title. Anyway, I tried my hand at it a while back and came up with around four dozen, some of which I'm posting today, others at another time. And, better yet, send me yours! I'd love to post them. Also this week, an Edward Lear nonsense poem (did he ever write anything but nonsense?), including a link to a great EL site plus a New Yorker clipping.

MY LIST

sincentive: encouragement to break any of the ten commandments

liebrary: repository for politicians' speeches

obitchuary: death notice for a female dog

Pulletzer Prize: for the best book written by a chicken

pretaliation: hitting back first

liquorice: the perfect combo of candy's dandy but liquor's quicker (Thanx, Ogden!)

younique: yes! you are special!

urinade: a poor substitute for Gatorade

sinvitation: a request to be adulterous

toylet: what Barbie uses

Mrs. Sissippi: a married state

copulite: foreplay only

pastorize: baptism in boiling water

origummi: how to make cranes from gummi bears

cattlelac: a luxury cow

Genesisn't: the rebuttal

procrastina - never mind, I'll finish it later


This Edward Lear poem is from his nonsense story "The History of the Seven Families of the Lake Pipple-Popple".

Here's a link to it and lots more of his wonderful whimsy:

http://www.nonsenselit.org/Lear/ns/pp.html • Saturday

 

Lettuce! O Lettuce!

Let us, O let us,

O lettuce leaves.

O let us leave this tree

And eat lettuce,

O let us, lettuce leaves!


Finally, here's a clipping from a New Yorker magazine of many years ago:

A Christmasy piece of flash fiction this week, a doodle, some whimsy and some humor. And, yes, I keep trying out new templates for the blog. Bear with me—sooner or later I'll settle on one. For a while, anyway.


I wrote this flash fiction piece as part of a writing exercise. The idea was to write several stories with the theme of "Where were you last night?" I'll probably share some of the others down the road.

“Where were you last night?” Her voice slurred the words, ran them together,mangled them so they came out "Wawuryousnight?" He felt torn. He hated her for the drinking, for the lack of self control. He hated to be around her when she was like this. He glanced at the bottle of sloe gin on the table, noted it was almost empty. But he also understood, even though he didn’t want to because it was in good measure due to him and his job that she drank. He knew she hated the forced isolation, the extreme weather (it was always freezing here and she was born and raised in Miami, for Chrissake!)  There were no other women around, just the male workers and she had nothing in common with them.

“It was December 24^th, dear, remember? I was delivering toys.” Santa sighed.

*      *       *       *       *

"If Only I Could Draw!"

Cartoon #31: Setting: produce section of a supermarket. Scene: display of lettuce with sign that says “Iceberg Lettuce”. Disappearing stern-first among the heads of iceberg lettuce is a small model of a passenger liner with “Titanic” on the bow.

Cartoon #42: A sailor has climbed the rigging up to the crow’s nest on a three-masted sailing ship. He looks in and yells down to the captain, watching from below, “There’s a bunch of crows in here!”

THE WORLD SHOULD LAST TILL THE BEER IS GONE

Okay, right up front, I'll say it: I'm a beer snob. First, I don't drink pseudo-beers (you know the ones I mean—Bud, Miller, Coors, etc.) or the faux-lite cousins (Bud Lite, Miller Lite, Coors Lite, etc. lite). Give me a good import or, even better, a good US micro-brew, any time. Any brewery that goes for quality over quantity is going to brew not just drinkable beers and ales, pilsners and lagers, but very good ones.

Second, I want my beer in a glass. Not a bottle. Not a can. (Putting beer in a can is like putting a Rolls Royce in a demolition derby.) Pouring a beer down the side of a glass releases aroma and flavor, making the beer still more enjoyable.

Third, I want my beer at the correct temperature. "Ice cold" beer leaves me cold. Cold subdues the flavor. A beer served at around 57º, give or take a few, has more flavor than the same beer served straight from the fridge. That means I have two choices to get my beer to the correct temperature. One is to remove it from the fridge half an hour or so ahead of when I want to drink it (not always possible) or (brace yourself, this will probably come as a shock), I can microwave it. Yes, microwave it. Pour the beer into a glass, nuke it at full power for 10-15 seconds, and presto! it's at the right temperature. Doesn't affect the flavor, there's no foaming, no loss of carbonation.  

The following bits of beer info are from http://hubpages.com/hub/beertriv.

    • Beer is the second most popular beverage in the world, coming in behind tea.

     • Pabst Beer is now called Pabst Blue Ribbon beer because it was the first beer to win a  

       blue ribbon at the Chicago World’s Fair in 1893.

    • To get rid of the foam at the top of beer (the head), stick your fingers in it. (But do it to your glass only!)

    • Monks brewing beer in the Middle Ages were allowed to drink five quarts of beer a day. (I would have been a monk.)

    • Bavaria still defines beer as a staple food.

    • Tossing salted peanuts in a glass of beer makes the peanuts dance

    • Samuel Adams Triple Bock is the strongest beer in the world with 17% alcohol by volume.                 

    • In Japan, beer is sold in vending machines, by street vendors and in the train stations.

    • To keep your beer glass or mug from sticking to your bar napkin, sprinkle a little salt on the      napkin before you set your glass down.

    • The Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock because of beer. They had planned to sail further south to a warm climate, but had run out of beer on the journey. (Smart, those pilgrims!)

         We attempt to find truth through Art, but Art is a guidepost, not a destination. When Art genuinely touches us, we know we're on the right path. Truth lies, if not ahead, then at least somewhere along the path we currently tread and therein lie the beauty and power of Art. Art helps us to discover and know ourselves and because "ourselves" is a collective term, expressing universality, we tap into the collective love and goodness of all of us who are "ourselves". A life without Art is a life without life.

*    *    *    *    *

 In a moment Truth would come flouncing through, throwing open wide the hinged saloon-style doors (you know the ones, they always hit you in the ass because you forget to move through them quickly – it’s so embarrassing) and come sashaying over to one of the round tables, probably the one with a leg just a tad bit shorter than the others so that people were constantly taking their napkin or a a matchbook or a business card or once even a five  dollar bill, folding it and putting it under the short leg to rebalance the table. One time a man representing everything good and wholesome in the little town had put a matchbook under the wrong leg and drinks went sliding downhill. It made the morning paper next morning.

Yes. Truth. Truth liked flouncing almost as much as Truth liked sashaying. Truth had once tried to flounce and sahsay at the same time but decided people wouldn’t understand. It was too much like mixing  Crest and Baco-Bits.

Anyway, truth flounced through the hinged saloon–style doors (but we’ve been through all that), sashayed to the table and whoomphed into a chair. There was only silence as the piano rinky-tinked away in the corner, kind of like little Jesus away in a manger or the dog in the manger maybe. Truth had something to announce, something important, and all who were there that day knew it, expected it, waited for it, savored the moments leading up to it, fondly recalled it in the remaining days of their lives. It was not the kind of announcement that would change a man’s life, change the town, or even cause anyone to change their mind. It was, however, a nice change.

“I have an announcement,” pontificated Truth (Truth did so admire the Pope!) and I want you to hear it. Otherwise, why would I make it?” Truth waited  to see if anyone would laugh. No one did. “Mange!” was the first word out of Truth’s mouth, followed by “Manger!” and finally, “Mangere!” Silence while the import of these three words sank in. Mange. Manger. Mangere. Two in English, one in Italian, the latter, perhaps,  no, almost certainly spoken at one time by the Pope himself.

Clearly, the connection between Mange and Manger was crystal clear. But no one had ever made the next obvious connective leap to Mangere, Italian for “eat.” Now there were three. Now it was complete.

Truth stood. Truth turned. Truth waved. Truth was finished. Truth moseyed this time, moseyed to the hinged saloon-style doors, flung them open and strutted into the street, embarrassed when the saloon-style doors hit Truth in the ass. The piano continued to rinky-tink and silence continued golden.

Truth was happy. And that’s the Truth.

"A good many young writers make the mistake of enclosing a stamped, 

self-addressed envelope, big enough for the manuscript to come back in. 

This is too much of a temptation for the editor.”

Ring Lardner

            Many of us write. Some of us, at best, are mediocre, turning out prose with all the zip and bounce of a bowl of gruel. Others of us are able to rise above that, writing stories and essays that are at least acceptable, occasionally rising to the level of very good. A few  (and I no longer say “of us”) rise to great heights, writing in ways that make the rest of us (there it is!) shake our heads in envy, frustration and admiration. This kind of writing is a gift, but it’s a gift that these writers have worked at  cultivating, usually for many years. Pinpointing precisely what it is that makes these writers so very good is impossible. For one thing, their talents are uniquely different, one from another. For another, there are so many ways in which writing can rise to the level of greatness.

             Some years ago I read Adam Bede by George Eliot, followed by Zora Neal Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God and Dust Tracks on a Road. In these three novels I found at least one element that helps boos a writer from the merely “good” category to “great,” and that’s spice.

As an example, a good cook regularly turns out tasty, appetizing dishes; occasionally she’ll put a little something different in her stew or casserole, something unexpected that makes the diner sit up and say, “This is great!” Great writers do the same thing. Here are some “spices” served up by Eliot and Hurston. Enjoy:

From Adam Bede:

• Adam’s father has drowned in the creek and his mother is saying, “But if thy feyther had lived, he’d ne’er ha’ wanted me to go to make room for another, for he could no more ha’ done wi’out me nor one side o’ the scissors can do wi’out th’ other.”

            • From Mrs. Poyser, the wife of a tenant farmer: “Ay, it’s ill livin’ in a hen-roost for them as doesn’t like fleas.”

            • Mrs. Poyser, talking about the fuss made over someone after they’ve died: “It ‘ud be better if folks ‘ud make much on us beforehand, I’stid o’ beginnin’ when we’re gone. It’s but little good you’ll do a-watering last year’s crop.”

            • Mr. Poyser has just come into the house to find the old Squire, his landlord, talking with Mrs. Poyser. “As he stood, red, rotund and radiant, before the small wiry, cool old gentleman, he looked like a prize apple beside a withered crab.”

            • Mr. Poyser entered “ . . . warm and coatless, with the two black-eyed boys behind him, looking as much like him as two small elephants are like a large one.”

            • Lisbeth, Adam’s mother, telling a young woman (Dinah) why she’d be better off marrying Adam instead of his brother, Seth, who is much like her: “The runnin’ brook isna athirst for th’ rain.”

            • And finally: “Mr. Craig was not above talking politics occasionally, though he piqued himself rather on a wise insight than on specific information. He saw so far beyond the mere facts of a case that really it was superfluous to know them.”

Zora Neal Hurston – from Their Eyes Were Watching God

She throwed de door wide open and stood dere, lookin’ outa her eyes and her face. Look lak she been livin’ through a hundred years in January without one day of Spring.

You, behind a plow!? You ain’t got no mo’ business wid uh plow than uh hog is got with uh holiday!

You cannot have no town without some land to build it on. Y’all ain’t got enough here to cuss a cat on without getting yo mouf full of fur.

An her with her hair jus’ as close to her head as ninety-nine is to a hundred.

You don’t know dat woman uh mine. She got ninety-nine rows of jaw teeth and git her good and mad, she’ll wade through solid rock up to her hip pockets.

From Dust Tracks on a Road

Like snowflakes, they get that same look from being so plentiful and falling so close together.

I felt as timid as an egg without a shell.

A few posts back I lamented my inability to draw (or, at least, to draw something on purpose). I have, however, come up with dozens of ideas for great cartoons. Here are a couple of more.

Cartoon #18: Smokey the Bear is sitting on a couch in his living room. Across from him sits his wife who’s saying, “Smokey, I want you to stop fighting fires with your bear hands!”

Cartoon #22: A dog being walked by its owner is commenting to another dog on the other side of a fence, “Yep, I’ve got a new leash on life.”

This must be why we don't keep cows
as indoor pets.

  How is that little children are so intelligent and men are so stupid? 

It must be education that does it.

            Alexandre Dumas fils

      The above quote reminds me of something a second grade girl told me many years ago. "You know, Mr. G., kids are like butterflies and adults are like cocoons." I doubt she'd ever read Dumas. 

      I'm now in my 40th year of teaching and I like to think I'm still a butterfly. Teaching little kids does that to you, keeps you young in heart and spirit if not in body. (It never used to creak when I bent over!) Children have few preconceptions, few biases (I like to think they have none) and a wide open belief that anything is possible; they are well-springs of spontaneity and creativity. They open the doors of my own imagination when I listen to them or read what they've written. Einstein famously said, "To know is nothing; to imagine is everything." I believe he, too, was a butterfly. 

     Here's an assortment of similes penned by second- and third-graders. In most cases, I supplied the first half and the students finished it.

• The trees were bunched together as closely as a crowd of people around a
   talking cat.

• The water in the lake was as still as death.

• The flower stretched to the sky like a man begging for light.

• Her teeth chattered like tap dancing feet.

• Fresh snow covered the land like frosting on a cake.

• The path twisted and turned like a never-ending pretzel.

• The trees were bunched together as closely as the candles on an

   old man’s birthday cake.

• The buses ram their way through traffic like worms struggling

   through dirt.

• The desert was as flat as a map on the wall.

• The babies were crawling all over the place, like ants on an old

   doughnut.

• The runner was out of the starting blocks like pop-tarts out of a 

   toaster.

• The teacher was as mean as an unfed dog.

• The old woman’s face was as wrinkled as a boy’s shirt.

• The book she was reading was as boring as a room full of

   business people.

      On a darker note, consider the following. Pacific Northwest magazine some years ago noted that in the 1940s, teachers listed the following as their top seven student discipline problems:

            Chewing gum

            Dressing inappropriately

            Not putting paper in the wastebasket

            Passing notes

            Running in the halls

            Skipping class

            Talking

      In the 1980s, the top seven student discipline problems faced by teachers were:

            Assaults

            Drug abuse

            Possessing alcohol

            Possessing weapons

            Skipping class

            Theft

            Vandalism

      And not much has changed since then.

      Finally, a wonderfully whimsical little poem by John Updike; it appeared in the New Yorker  probably forty years ago:

                       The cars in Caracas

                       Create a ruckukus;

                       A four-wheeled fracacas,

                       Taxaxis and truckus;

                       Cacophono-comic,

                       The traffic is farcic;

                       Its weave leads the stomach

                       To turn Caracarsick.

                                 John Updike